


Quickly, now

by ScribereEstAgere



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribereEstAgere/pseuds/ScribereEstAgere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby doesn’t panic, usually. Unless it’s about Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quickly, now

**Author's Note:**

> **These characters do not belong to me.**

//

 

Things that go bump in the night:

Tree branches.

Neighbours having sex.

Monsters under the bed.

Eames’ head.

 

//

 

She gets home late on a January, Wednesday morning: 1:37 a.m. The time is not unusual, but her fatigue is. She’s not used to this feeling so tired, this feeling so…worn out. She’s been more worn out lately than usual and she knows — even if she won’t admit it — that it has something — everything — to do with _him_ , with thinking about him and worrying about him and wondering if he’s all right, with…everything.

Forced leave. Psych evaluation. Mother. Brother. Nephew.

Bobby.

Shit.

She scoops up her pile of mail from the floor. Bill, bill, circular, flyer. Invitation to six-month free trial at local gym. Hmm. Maybe. No. Bill. She sighs, throws everything down on the side table, yawns and stretches. Tea? she thinks. No. Shower? Maybe, she thinks. No. Bed. Bed. Sleep. Semi-clean sheets, semi-new pillow. Work tomorrow, again. Bobby, again.

So, no tea, no shower. Just. Sleep. She grabs her purse, turns off the hall light, heads towards her bedroom.

Later she’ll realize just how tired she was because never in her life has she tripped on anything and catching her toe on the corner of the living room area rug just seems, well, ridiculous, but in hindsight many things seem ridiculous.

So, she catches her toe on the corner of the rug and it’s ridiculous, but she still thinks everything will be all right, until it’s not.

She pitches forward in the complete inky darkness. Uh oh, she thinks. Her feet shuffle, her hands scrabble madly for purchase, but it’s too late, because she’s falling hard and then there is a brilliant kaleidoscope of light — redyellowredyellowblue — as her head connects with something hard and unyielding.

 _Stars_ , she thinks. She never knew you actually saw stars when you hit your head hard enough. She’d have to remember to tell Bobby about all the _stars_ —

Ouch. Ouchouchou—

Then.

Nothing.

 

//

 

When she was seven she fell from her treehouse in the back yard. She fell hard in the dry, summer grass beneath and lay there, stunned and breathless, wondering if she was dead. After she realized she wasn’t, she figured it was the shock more than the pain that enveloped her.

Then she waited. She remembered _that_ feeling more than any other about that incident. Waiting. Hadn’t anyone _seen_ her fall? Didn’t anyone _care_? She blinked up at the tree and felt very alone in the world. Eventually she stood up and went inside. She told her mother what had happened and her mother had asked her if anything hurt. When Alex said no, her mother tsked twice and told her to be more careful next time.

Through a haze of pain she wonders if anyone will come this time.

 

//

 

Ring.

Ringringring.

Ring.

She claws her way to consciousness because her cell phone is ringing and it could be important, she thinks. It could be work it could be someone in trouble and it could be:

Bobby.

Anyway.

Her head feels heavy and _wet_. She’s not sure why that is, but anyway. She licks her lips slowly and is aware of her hand groping for her phone which won’t stop ringing. She rolls to her right — at least she thinks it’s her right; it’s very dark and she’s not sure where she is — and the ringing goes on and on.

Then it stops.

Why is her head wet?

Isn’t anyone coming?

Doesn’t anyone _care_?

Then.

Nothing.

 

//

 

There’s that damn ringing again. She sighs deeply, opens her mouth. No, don’t do that. That _hurts_. This time when she opens her eyes she sees a sliver of light through her living room curtains. Ok. She’s in her living room…on the floor. Her purse is beside her. The ringing is coming from within. Cell phone. She manages to reach inside and her fingers curl around its familiar smooth, cool shape. She pulls it up to her ear. She thumbs it on, but is unable to speak just yet.

“Eames? Eames? You there?”

Bobby. Of course. She sighs.

“I woke you…I’m sorry. Sorry. I just — it’s this case. Varga. I thought of something. Something…not right. What if— hear me out now—

“Bobby—“ she licks her lips again, tries to move her mouth as little as possible when she forms coherent words.

“S’okay, sorry. Really. Sorry. We…we can talk in the—“

“Bobby,” she says with some force. She really wishes she knew why she feels so _wet_.

“What is it? I know it’s late. Thought you’d be drinking tea or something—“

“Fell,” she says.

“What?”

She can hear him breathing and she concentrates on that good and familiar sound for a moment. She needs to focus for god’s sakes.

“I _fell_ ,” she says then. “Hit…something…”

“You…what? Eames. Are you all right? Where are you? Where—“

“Home,” she says. “Home. Listen…”

There was something she wanted to tell him and she can’t remember just now. It has just slipped away and as she herself slips away and the phone slips from her fingers, she can hear his voice, distant but still frantic and she listens to _that_ until there’s nothing again.

 

//

 

Bobby doesn’t panic.

Usually.

The sound of her voice, small and reedy and nearly breathless. In pain? Yeah. She said she fell. Fell. Down the stairs? She said she was home. Home. Ok. Good. She’s not lying out in the middle of god knows where. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can see the tendons quiver under the skin.

Quickly, he thinks as his foot presses down harder.

He doesn’t panic by nature.

Quickly, now.

Not much scares him anymore.

Unless it’s about Eames.

 

//

 

She can sense his presence because it seems to fill the whole room. He calls her name sharply, then flicks on a light and she hears his quick intake of breath before she feels his hands on her neck, her shoulders, running down her arms, legs.

“Were you attacked?” he says with urgency and she almost laughs but realizes that will hurt.

“No. Just…clumsy. Tired.”

“You…fell,” he says. His hands land in her hair, gently probing there.

“Wet,” she murmurs.

“Blood,” he says. “You…you hit your head pretty hard— there,” he points to the wall, the corner. She looks. There is blood there, a lot, pooled on the wood floor.

“Good grief,” she says. “Stupid…”

He helps her sit up, his arm across her shoulders. She tries not to wince, tries to take a deep breath.

“We need to go…quickly, now,” he scoops her up, knees and shoulders cradled in his arms. She barely notices, but she does, all the same. She notices a lot. He hurries down her front steps through the chilly night air which makes her head feel a whole lot better.

What had she wanted to tell him? Doesn’t matter right now, she thinks as he helps her to the car, slides her in, buckles her up.

Later, she thinks as she watches lights and houses slip by. She lifts her eyes. It’s a clear, cold night and she sees many small pinpricks of light in the sky. Those are—

“Eames?” his voice cuts through everything.

“Mm?” she says, head lolling.

“Don’t go to sleep on me,” he says and she feels his hand on her leg, a squeeze there and normally that kind of intimacy would startle her but right now she can’t think of a single thing wrong with it.

“Tired,” she says, perplexed. Well, of course she’s tired — it’s two in the morning. But she feels like she could go to sleep for a long time.

“I know,” he says. “Perfectly normal reaction. But you can’t, ok? Stay awake? For me, ok?”

“Make me,” she says querulously and sees him, peripherally, grin outright.

 

//

 

The doctor glances at their bare fingers after he has put three staples in Alex’s head.

“Your…girlfriend?” He looks at Bobby. Bobby says nothing and Alex snorts on the bed. “You’ll have to wake her up every two hours…ask her questions she can answer. Make sure she’s coherent. Could also shine a flashlight in her eyes, make sure her pupils dilate.”

Bobby nods. “I can do that.”

Alex snorts again.

 

//

 

She won’t let him carry her this time. She walks to the bedroom slowly and carefully, skirting around the blood and falling heavily onto the bed. He hovers in the doorway, wondering if she needs anything. He rattles the painkillers in the little orange bottle, wonders what would have happened to her if he hadn’t called.

She murmurs something as she drifts off, but he doesn’t catch it.

“You say something?” he says quietly, stepping closer. She says it again and he backs out, glad she can’t see him smiling.

Sounded like _You came._

 

//

 

3 a.m.

“Eames.” He nudges her gently. She mumbles something against the pillow. He rolls her. “Eames.”

“What?”

“What’s your name?”

“You just told me.”

Oh. Right.

“How old are you?”

“Nice try.”

“What colour are my eyes?”

“A very nice brown. Now leave me alone.”

She really does keep surprising him.

 

//

 

5 a.m.

“Eames.”

“Don’t _do_ that,” she snipes, closing her eyes against the beam of light.

“I…have to. Sorry.”

She rolls over again.

“God. That was annoying.”

“They look fine,” he says, turning off the flashlight.

“What?”

“Your eyes. Your eyes look fine.” He moves away.

“Where you going?” she asks.

“Back…to the couch,” he indicates vaguely in the direction of her living room.

She must have hit her head very hard because she says, “Just stay _here_ , for god’s sakes. Save you the walk.”

“Long walk,” he says. “S’okay, really. Rest. I’ll just be out there—“

“Bobby. Stop it. Lie down already.”

She curls up and falls back to sleep. He makes a move to go, shuffles his feet, bounces on his heels, looks down at her.

What the hell.

 

//

 

7 a.m.

She stirs against him, breathes in his particular Bobby scent and permits herself a small smile. He’s still here. That’s good. Very weird, but good.

He’s lying on his side, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, sleeping.

“Bobby,” she whispers. He doesn’t stir. She smiles and considers letting him sleep but she can’t. “Bobby,” she says again, louder, and nudges him. It’s important that he wakes up because she has finally remembered.

She needs to tell him about all the stars.

 

//

 

_Fin_


End file.
